


only a whisper away

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-13
Packaged: 2018-02-08 16:03:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1947417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stops in his tracks, catching sight of a sprig of mistletoe above the kitchen entrance. A sprig of mistletoe that <i>definitely</i> wasn't there when he left the flat this morning. "Uh," he says, twisting only his wrist to point at the decoration. </p><p>"Mistletoe, I think you'll find," Mycroft says, mildly, after a beat.</p><p>"Yeah, cheers, Mycroft," John says, "I do have <i>eyes</i>," and Mycroft raises an eyebrow, so slightly, so quickly, like he disagrees and <i>Mycroft will not ruin Christmas. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	only a whisper away

**Author's Note:**

> A [prompt meme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/22393.html?thread=131979385#t131979385) fill, because mistletoe is one of my favourite tropes. :)
> 
> (Set post-Season 3).

  
  
He's running late for his own bloody Christmas party (his and Sherlock's really, and apparently, that's a thing they _do_ now, host Christmas parties in their flat and that's - that's _fine_ ); the clinic's down to skeleton staff this week and - well. Such is the life of a locum.  
  
He's _freezing_ , and his feet are killing him, but he's looking forward to one of Mrs. Hudson's mince pies, and having a drink with Greg and pulling on an awful, festive jumper and - it's been a rough twelve months (rough few years, maybe, if he's honest) and it's _Christmas_.  
  
"You're late," Sherlock says, from the couch, as John enters the flat, moving only his eyes. Greg lifts his drink in greeting and John nods at him and Mike.  
  
John shrugs out of his coat.  "Merry Christmas to you, too."  
  
"It's Christmas _Eve_ ," Sherlock replies, like that means he can't possibly be _genial_ , and John sighs.  
  
"Yes," he agrees, "It is. Which is why I'm going to go get-" He stops in his tracks, catching sight of a sprig of mistletoe above the kitchen entrance. A sprig of mistletoe that _definitely_ wasn't there when he left the flat this morning. "Uh," he says, twisting only his wrist to point at the decoration.  
  
"Mistletoe, I think you'll find," Mycroft says, mildly, after a beat.  
  
"Yeah, cheers, Mycroft," John says, "I do have _eyes_ ," and Mycroft raises an eyebrow, so slightly, so quickly, like he disagrees and _Mycroft will not ruin Christmas_. John ducks into the kitchen to grab a beer. He can't be arsed getting changed. "Was wondering where it _came_ from," he calls, twisting the cap off, and when he re-enters the living room, everyone's gone quiet. "We have some of Scotland Yard's finest here-" Sherlock makes a small noise of disagreement, and John laughs into the mouth of his drink.  
  
"Oi!" Greg protests.  
  
"And no-one saw anything?" John continues, after a pull on his beer.  
  
"Oh, I'm on it," Greg assures him, from the couch, without uncrossing his legs. "Witnesses?" he prompts, dryly, and Mycroft gazes out the window, and even though his expression doesn't change, John suspects he's actually a little amused. "Suspects?"  
  
"More importantly," John says, dragging one of the dining table chairs closer to the couch, "Motive? Who's trying to get a leg over at my Christmas party?" He glares, mock-suspiciously, at Mrs. Hudson.  
  
" _John_ ," she says, fondly, and he leans over and kisses her on the cheek.  
  
"Get a leg over?" Greg echoes, "What kind of mistletoe traditions do _you_ have?" and John winks at him, and Molly's trying not to laugh.  
  
His gaze lands on Sherlock, across the coffee table. "I see you managed to get dressed," he deadpans, and the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, just slightly.  
  
"You texted me four times today to remind me to, if I may, "put some proper bloody clothes on" and "put the bloody tongues away"," he replies. "I assume the second "bloody" was you being literal?"  
  
"Tongues?" Mrs. Hudson repeats, dismayed, before he can answer. "Oh, _Sherlock_."  
  
"Legally acquired," Sherlock assures her.  
  
" _Not human_ ," John says, staring at Sherlock, a little incredulously, and Sherlock gives a little, irritated shake of his head, like that couldn't _possibly_ be the real issue.  
  
"When you say he wasn't wearing clothes..." Greg says, timing it well, and John chokes on his beer.  
  
" _Pyjamas_ ," he manages, between coughs, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him and Greg's trying not to laugh, and the dickhead's just winding him up. "Christ," he mutters, scrubbing at his face, and his cheeks are flushed (a combination of the coughing and - something else).  
  
  
*  
  
  
He tosses the empty beer bottle in the bin, bumping into Sherlock when he steps back out of the kitchen.  
  
"The tongues?" he asks, a little rhetorically.  
  
"Every four hours," Sherlock murmurs, gaze unwavering.  
  
"Don't they know it's _Christmas_?" he asks, mock indignantly, and Sherlock looks like he's actually _thinking_ about it.  
  
"No," he says, and -  
  
"Oh, _boys_ ," Mrs. Hudson laughs, hands clasped together, and when John turns his head to look at her, she points at the mistletoe.  
  
"Ha," John says, and it's not a laugh. "Oh, no. It's - we're not -"  
  
"It's _tradition_ ," she protests, and he glances behind her, glances around the living room, then back at up Sherlock, all cheekbones and inscrutable expression and what's a kiss between best mates under mistletoe? But he pauses just a fraction too long, he must -  
  
"Tongues," Sherlock mutters, brushing past him, breaking the moment, and John swallows, and steps further into the living room, away from the bloody mistletoe and Sherlock and whatever the hell _that_ was and - right. Nobody looks terribly impressed with him.  
  
"What?" he asks, defensive but quiet, mindful of Sherlock in the other room, and Mrs. Hudson isn't smiling anymore.  
  
" _John_ ," she says, reproachfully.  
  
" _He_ walked away from _me_ ," he replies, tightly.  
  
"So he wouldn't get hurt," Mrs. Hudson says, like she feels sorry for - him? Sherlock? Both of them? And that doesn't even make any _sense_ -  
  
"He didn't think he had a reason," Molly says, softly, and everyone turns to look at her, "To stay." And John stares at her. "You didn't _give_ him a reason," she amends.  
  
"It's just _mistletoe_ ," John says, tersely, and he's not entirely sure what they're even talking about anymore and even Mycroft looks disappointed in him.  
  
Sherlock re-enters the living room, then.  
  
"How're the tongues going?" John asks, as normally as he can.  
  
Sherlock meets his gaze, briefly, blankly, as he sits back down on the couch. "Fine."  
  
"Right. Good."  
  
  
*  
  
  
Mrs. Hudson reaches over to squeeze his forearm. "Would you heat up the mince pies, dear?" she asks, and, right, apparently she's talking to him again.  
  
He smiles at her and stands, and goes to turn on the oven (and if he decides to stay and wait for it to heat up, it's only because the pies won't take long. He's not _hiding_ ).  
  
When he finally steps back out into the living room, plate of pies in hand, Sherlock's heading into the kitchen with an empty wine glass. Off John's quizzical look, he says, clearly unimpressed, "I've been informed that, as host, it's considered - polite," he frowns as he says it, throwing a glare at Greg or Mycroft, John's not sure, "to re-fill the guests' drinks."  
  
John nods, slowly. "Right."  
  
He lets his gaze travel slowly from Sherlock's to the mistletoe above them and back, and a muscle in Sherlock's cheek jumps, like he's clenched his teeth. "John," he says, very softly.  
  
"Well, come on," John says, just as quietly, lifting his chin and, warily, Sherlock leans down and presses his slightly open lips to John's for a moment, dry and chaste and wholly unremarkable in every way except for the fact that it's _Sherlock_ kissing him.  
  
(It's a kiss of domesticity, of familiarity; a kiss of lovers, of partners, and John's throat _aches_ ).  
  
Sherlock straightens up, their mouths breaking apart with a gentle smack and Sherlock's blinking, eyes darting away, and John licks his lips, absently.  
  
"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock murmurs, stepping into the kitchen, arm brushing John's, and John jerks his head.  
  
He clears his throat. "Pie, anyone?" he asks the room at large, a little unevenly, but, mercifully, Greg gives him a nod.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
  
When Mrs. Hudson convinces Sherlock to pull out his violin - and he doesn't take much convincing, really, but he puts up some token resistance and John grins into his lap - John grabs another beer.  
  
Greg joins him near the fireplace as Sherlock unwraps his rosin.  
  
"Any leads?" John jokes, beer bottle at his mouth, nodding at the mistletoe.  
  
Sherlock's hand stills, fingertips resting on his bow, for the briefest of moments, and Greg's gaze lands on the back of his neck and _stupid_ , he's so _stupid_ -  
  
"Might be one for the cold case pile," Greg says, evenly, normally, as Sherlock picks up the violin.  
  
"Yeah, no. Right," John says, absently, staring at Sherlock as he starts to play, but Sherlock's not looking at him, and that's _fine_ , because his mind is _racing_ and  
  
  
( _When you eliminate the impossible_ \- he remembers, and the impossible is that Mycroft broke into 221B to hang Christmas decorations; the impossible is that Mrs. Hudson and her hip were climbing ladders - _whatever remains, however mad it might seem_ \- and this seems _terribly_ mad -  _must be the truth_.  
  
And it doesn't matter if Sherlock hung it himself, doesn't matter if it was Mrs. Hudson's meddling suggestion, doesn't matter if Mike - who's only really shuffled back into John's sphere of friends since the divorce - had anything to do with it. There's _mistletoe_ in his fucking flat so Sherlock can kiss him, or he can kiss Sherlock and -  
  
he's not a complete idiot, despite what Mycroft quite often - and quite _obviously_ -  thinks. There were hints of - something, at the wedding, on the tarmac, but _nothing_ since then, nothing, and being the single pressure point of the most extraordinary man he's ever met is terrifying and exhilarating and _ridiculous_ ).  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
He closes the door behind Greg, the last to leave, and the flat's so quiet and _still_ , and he turns to face Sherlock.  
  
"John," he says.  
  
"Can you-" he presses his lips together for a moment, "take it down?"  
  
He doesn't have to elaborate, doesn't have to point at it, and Sherlock slowly reaches up and removes the mistletoe from the doorframe. John holds his hand out for it, and Sherlock passes it to him, without their hands touching.  
  
He walks across the room and tosses the mistletoe into the fire, before turning to face Sherlock again.  
  
"Burning mistletoe," Sherlock says, pausing as John moves towards him, "is a pagan ritual-" he breaks off, as John steps into him. "Thought to banish evil," he finishes, softly.  
  
"Yeah?" John asks, hands running up the front of Sherlock's shirt, his neck, to cup his cheeks.  
  
"Reasonably sure, at any rate," Sherlock mutters, breath hitching as John tugs him down and kisses him again  
  
(kisses him _properly_ , heart pounding, tilting Sherlock's head and urging his mouth open, one arm dropping to wrap around Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock's hands are low on his back, clutching at his jumper and holding him close, and the kiss is breathless and _deep_ until he has to pull back, with a gentle suck on Sherlock's top lip, because he's grinning too much).  
  
Sherlock swallows, head still bent, and the tip of John's nose nudges at his cheekbone.  
  
"OK?" John checks.  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock says, without bite, and John huffs a laugh and kisses the corner of his mouth, affectionately, and Sherlock's lips pucker, just slightly, automatically, in response, and bugger it, he's kissing Sherlock _again_.  
  
When he pulls back this time, he touches his thumb to the bow of Sherlock's top lip.  
  
"You're - _we're_ ," he corrects, replacing his thumb with a quick kiss, "ridiculous. Absolutely _ridiculous_ ," and Sherlock's smiling - one of the proper smiles, that deepens the creases at the corners of his eyes - when he murmurs his agreement and tugs John into another soft kiss.  
  
  
  
  



End file.
